And as the blood drained from Sarah’s face, the shocked crowd went silent, and turned to look at her; there was little she could do but stare at the hole Jack had left when he disappeared into the crowd.
And as she shook off her shock and gave into mortification, Sarah became very aware that the eyes of the partygoers had once again fallen on her.
And contrary to what she told Jack—she was very much aware of
these
looks.
They did not look at her with pride, nor with desire.
One dance, it seemed, was all it took to transform her back into the “Girl Who Lost a Duke.”
B
Y
the time dawn was just barely beginning to lighten the sky, and Sarah had bundled herself into the carriage to go home, she was, in her own eyes at least, back to being the Golden Lady.
No longer the “Girl Who Lost a Duke.”
But still utterly livid at the appalling way Jackson Fletcher had treated her.
The seconds of murmurs and mortification could have extended into full minutes, had not rescue come in the form of the Comte de Le Bon.
While Sarah had stood in the middle of the dance floor, the last strains of music being overtaken by the awful whispers of the crowd, she had resolved to straighten her spine and leave the dance floor with her head held high and a smile on her face.
But try as she might, the smile wouldn’t come.
Because Jack—of all people,
Jack
—had shoved her away from him in disgust.
It was at that moment, when she thought she’d turn to ash, that a familiar hand grazed her elbow.
She looked up, and found the kind eyes of the Comte.
“You must dance with me now,” the Comte said, his inflection more of a cajoling hope than a command.
And so, with the music starting up as quickly as it had faded away, the next dance began, and Sarah found herself led around the dance floor by the Comte’s skillful steps for the quadrille.
But still, even without looking, Sarah knew the eyes of the ton were upon her. The Comte must have known it, too, because he did the most scandalous and outrageous thing that had happened to Sarah since … well, since a few minutes ago when Jackson Fletcher left her in the middle of the dance.
During a turn, where they clasped forearms, the Comte reached up and let his fingers graze the exposed inside of her elbow.
It tickled. And she couldn’t help but laugh.
“There we are, I knew I could get you to smile,” the Comte said, his expression reflecting hers. “My sister, Georgina, saw fury on that young man’s face from all the way across the room. But your smiling makes them think his anger could not affect you. They will stop worrying about you now.”
And indeed, the mythical
they
had stopped its worrying. Prying eyes turned back to their own conversations, fans fluttered to waist height, no one needing to conceal their lips any longer.
Sarah decided to try and like Georgina Thompson a little more.
“Tell me, Comte,” Sarah asked, as they went through another turn, “how is it that you know so much about turning people’s attention elsewhere?”
The Comte’s mouth was set in a straight line, and he blushed, piquing Sarah’s interest. In the few weeks that she had known the Comte, the one thing she knew securely about the man was that he was not the type to blush. “Actually, I know little of it, except that it is a happy side effect of hearing you laugh.”
And at that Sarah laughed again, which allowed the Comte’s steps to become lighter, easier.
“Now,” he said, his voice becoming low and seductive, sending just the smallest of thrills up Sarah’s back, “you must allow me to dance attendance on you, and fetch you cakes and
feed them to you, and push your hair back behind your ear, so no one will even remember what came to pass … not even you.”
And with those few words, she regained all of her confidence, all of her Golden Lady self. So she allowed it. Allowed him to fetch her punch after their dance. Allowed him to introduce her to his stepsister. And when they went on to the next event, she even insisted to Phillippa that he ride up in their carriage. And while he did not go so far as to tuck her hair behind her ear, she was certain that his closeness the entire evening saved her from utter scandal.
And so for the rest of the night, she did not allow herself to dwell on that devastating moment, or on the person that perpetrated it.
Jackson Fletcher.
That rat.
She would not think of him, or his probing questions and arrogant ways. Or of how he had caught her when she had stumbled, saved her from falling.
Or of how he then left her in the middle of the dance floor.
After all, if there was one thing Sarah had learned in the past month, it was how to put unpleasant thoughts out of her mind.
“My feet are numb,” Phillippa said on a yawn, breaking into Sarah’s thoughts. “I do hope I don’t have any blisters. I intend to dance with my husband at least five times tomorrow night to make up for tonight’s absence, and very well can’t if my feet are bleeding.”
She reached down and pulled off her dancing slippers, which would have been quite the shocking thing to do—if they hadn’t been alone in Phillippa’s well-appointed carriage.
“Sir Marcus left early this evening?”
“Oh, Lord Fieldstone had him run off and do something for the War Department,” Phillippa waved her hand dismissively. “Likely involved filing a report, or something of equally insignificant consequence.” She turned her gaze to Sarah’s feet. “Any why are your feet not in pain? You danced every dance. Don’t tell me it’s the resilience of youth—I’ll have to hate you.”
Sarah shrugged, pulling back the curtain of the carriage slightly. The sky was turning to light already, but she was not
too surprised. She had seen the dawn more often in the past month than she had in her entire life leading up to it.
“Yes, the Comte made sure of it,” she met Phillippa’s eyes.
“Indeed,” Phillippa countered with a smile. “That man acted of his own volition. Indeed, tonight he showed himself to be very much under your spell.”
Sarah blushed. While she was more than willing to latch onto the Comte as a source of fashion and fun, the simple fact was he had shown himself to be something more than a light flirtation that evening. “I find him a very interesting man,” she confessed. “I like the way he speaks.”
“His accent or what he says?” Phillippa asked shrewdly, but was met with a shrug and a laugh. “You are doing incredibly well—better than I ever hoped.” Her feline smile slowly spread across her face. “Soon enough, you won’t need me to guide you.”
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, suddenly concerned.
“Nothing to warrant such an expression, I promise you!” Phillippa replied on a laugh. “Simply that I have a husband and children, and in truth should not be spending every night out until dawn. But you are rapidly becoming established enough on your own to not need me by your side at every party.”
“Oh.” She was unable to contain a frown. This was unexpected. The idea that she would have to face the world alone … again … it was surprisingly unsettling.
But that was uncharitable to think—after all, Phillippa had done her a great service by befriending her, and giving her the tools she needed to thrive in society. But Phillippa could not be by her side forever.
“In fact,” Phillippa said, as the carriage rumbled to a stop outside of number sixteen Upper Grosvenor Street, the house as quiet as the dawn itself, “Marcus and I are going to be leaving in a week or so for the country. Not a long stay,” she assured Sarah when her eyes went wide with alarm. “But I’m afraid he needs to attend to some things, and I do not like to be without him for too long.”
Sarah nodded dumbly, unable to find words to convey her feelings at that precise moment.
“But do not fret! You will be fine. Your mother will simply
have to learn how to stay out late enough to accommodate your dance card.”
“She always goes home with Bridget,” Sarah sighed. Lately Bridget had annoyingly taken to going home earlier and earlier, as she had tonight. It was as if she were trying to ruin Sarah’s evening through passive means, when outright confrontation was not permitted.
“Well if not your mother, then perhaps Lieutenant Fletcher? An old family friend would not look too amiss as your escort.”
“Lieutenant Fletcher?” Sarah looked up, suddenly alert. “Have you gone mad? I thought we were resolved to hate him! Not minutes before you called him an odious man!”
“No,” Phillippa replied, then sighed. “I just want you to be happy, my dear. Lieutenant Fletcher is a guest of your father, hating him would only make life more difficult. Having turmoil in one’s home will not allow you to have much peace, or to be at your best for society. You would do better to resolve your issues and befriend him again. Once society sees you as friends, the barest trace of tonight’s unfortunate moment will be gone in a blink. And,” she added, “perhaps I feel the poor lad could use a break. It cannot be easy, waiting to see if he’ll sail again, living in such a state of … purgatory.”
Sarah mulled this for a moment, knowing that Phillippa was right. Unfortunately, she doubted Jack would be willing to apologize for his behavior tonight. And there was no way any friendship could continue without it.
“I think I may resolve myself to a few weeks of early evenings.” Sarah smiled quickly, allaying any fear. “Perhaps I shall decide to have a head cold for a week or so, and let all the ton go mad with wondering where I am. As you taught me, ‘mystery’…”
“Is a thousand times better than explanation.” Phillippa finished for her. And with that, she rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, indicating that her guest was ready to alight.
Sarah put her feet to the cobblestones and waved good night to her friend, as the shiny carriage took off down Upper Grosvenor Street. It was so deliciously quiet, in these few spare moments when the sky was moving from a dark gray to pinking up with warmth and energy to start the new day. In the next half hour, as she had learned from her previous nights,
this block would slowly become populated with workers, char men, fruit and flower sellers, bakers, all starting the long tasks of their daily trade. But now, for these few minutes, the street was all hers.
The old of yesterday met the new of the coming dawn, and London felt wide-open to possibility.
It was the only time when she was alone that she was not lonely.
But the peace of the dawn would soon break, and if truth was told, Sarah was rather tired. Her feet may not ache like Phillippa’s—but then again, vanity didn’t have her ordering her shoes made too small—but they mutely protested the shuffling movement from the cobblestones, up the marble steps to her front door, where the butler’s snores received her.
Or they did, usually.
But as she stepped through the door into the foyer, Dalton was not sleeping in his chair, as he normally was when she came home late. Always watching over her. Except now, she thought, her brow coming down, puzzled.
“I sent him to bed,” came an easy drawl from the library doorway. “Told him I’d wait up for you.”
Oh damn. And the dawn had put her in such a good mood, too.
Sarah turned. Leaning against the library doorjamb was Jackson Fletcher. The loose, easy movements he made toward her bespoke his inebriated state. That and the bottle in his hand.
“I doubt he would have trusted you in such a state,” Sarah said, her straight back and clipped speech making her seem awfully prim, she knew. But when he came closer, all she could smell was whiskey. Whiskey, and something else…
She had noticed that same something else when they danced. Salt air. Even being off ship for more than a week, Jack still smelled like the sea.
But she would not let the way Jack smelled distract her from her distaste of his current condition. After all, the way he smiled at her was more than enough distraction.
Sarah shook herself. She was far too annoyed with Jack to be thinking such …
leading
thoughts. It must be her exhaustion. The pain in her feet.
The possibilities of the new day?
“He was asleep in his chair, Miss Forrester. I didn’t have to wrestle him out of it, I promise you.” Jack shrugged, taking a step backward into the library. “Maybe you should be more considerate of your household staff, and come home at an easier hour.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes and followed.
“You are not one to lecture me on consideration, Jack.”
“Oh, am I Jack now?” He plopped himself down on the sofa, letting his legs sprawl, dominating the close space. She ignored his jibe, and his sprawling, simply by standing in his way and staring him down until he gave in and sat up, allowing her to pass and occupy the opposite end of the couch.
If there was one thing that Phillippa had taught her, it was how to silently demand one’s due respect.
But maybe Phillippa was right about something else. Maybe she should try. Maybe she should be the dutiful girl and beg his friendship back, just to make things easier. To relent her anger, however justified.
To give in to gravity’s pull.
“A considerate man would not drink an entire bottle of my father’s liquor,” she chided, somewhat gently.
“Not your father’s liquor,” Jack countered. “I do have funds enough of my own to purchase a bottle of cheap whiskey. And I doubt Lord Forrester would begrudge me a night of indulgence. He’s the one who told me to use my time in London as a holiday, after all.”
“Well, a considerate man would not have left a lady in the middle of the dance floor,” she couldn’t help saying, “simply to go purchase a bottle of whiskey and drown himself.”
“I did not leave you in the middle. We were somewhat to the side.”
“Halfway through the dance!” she exaggerated, but was answered only with a shrug.
“Besides,” he continued without care, “I did not go to specifically purchase a bottle of whiskey. But one happened to be there for the taking.”
“And where was this place, where whiskey is so freely distributed?” Sarah asked, folding her arms over her chest.